Harry Potter and the Pillar of Storge
by Happy Cows Mooo
Summary: This is a humorous writing of the 6th Harry Potter book. My first short story fanfic. It's rather strange... Ok, it's really strange. This story is at a standstill right now, and I don't think I'll be finishing it, sorry, but feel free to leave comments.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and some incidents are products of J. K. Rowling's imagination, not mine. Any resemblance to fanfics, original fiction, or any other document, living or dead, is entirely coincidental (except for Harry Potter, of course).

Welcome to Harry Potter and the Pillar of Storge. This story contains a small spoiler for the 4th and 5th books, so beware. This is what the 6th Harry Potter book would look like if Mrs. Rowling were doing drugs. No, I did not come up with that title by myself. I'm not _that_ wierd. The name is based on the rumored title for the 6th book. This title is not real, though if you thought it was you might be on drugs yourself.

This story is my attempt at comedy. It contains more sarcasm and cynicism than some people use in a lifetime. I wouldn't call it exactly funny, and it was probably more fun for me to write than it is for anyone else to read. However, a few people out there might like it. I will attempt to summon them using my sense of humor. _ET phone home_. Anyways, on to Chapter 1!

P. S. If anyone knows whether or not "storge" is an actual word, please leave a review. Thanks.


	2. Quality Time with the Dursleys

Harry Potter and the Pillar of Storge

Our story begins in a small, quiet neighborhood in Surrey. You know, one of those neighborhoods that look like they've been taken off the set of _Leave of It to Beaver_. Visitors get a creeping suspicion that even the homeowners' lightbulbs all look the same. Every now and then you see someone running in the opposite direction and screaming, "IT'S THE ATTACK OF THE SUBURBANITES!"

Though the time was 6 P.M., a boy was sitting outside Number 4. He was a teenager, with rumpled black hair and baggy clothes that gave the overall impression of a beatnik. However, this was not just any boy. His name was Harry Potter, and he was a wizard. At the moment, he was thinking about his worst enemy.

_I wonder what incredibly complicated, obvious, and yet completely random plan Voldemort will come up with this year_, he wondered. _There's no point to worrying, really. I'll still kick his butt no matter what does, but I'd rather not have another minor, yet loveable character die._

_Suddenly, there was a shout from behind him. "What do you think you're doing?" shouted Uncle Vernon. _

"Sitting outside. That's not against the law is, it?" Harry asked, with not a little sarcasm. "What can I possibly be doing wrong by sitting outside?"

"Um... um... You could be sending telepathic messages! To aliens!" Vernon's piggy eyes, and his entire piggy body, tensed with suspicion.

"Aliens?"

"So you admit it!"

"Since when do you believe in aliens? And how do you always manage to sneak up on me despite the fact that you weigh several hundred pounds more than I do?"

Harry's uncle was lost for a moment. "Your parents were wastrels!" he snapped.

"Is that your answer to everything? I might have magic, but at least I don't consider running old _Mousercise_ tapes to be exercise."

Vernon gasped. "Don't you dare say that... that... _m_ word again," he muttered. "If the neighbors heard you, boy..."

"What, MAGIC?" Harry shouted.

"No... the other one," Vernon whispered.

"Mousercises! Mousercises! MOUSERCISES!" Harry bellowed.

Uncle Vernon blanched in horror, and slowly looked around for the neighbors.


	3. If God is a DJ

Note: For anyone who didn't understand the reference in the last chapter, Mousercises was a part of The Mickey Mouse Show that taught exercise routines for children. If you don't understand the parodies in this chapter, then go to a video store and rent _Cinderella_ and _The Matrix_. It's never too late to have a happy childhood. Though you would have one messed up childhood if it was based on _The Matrix_.

* * *

Chapter 2: If God is a DJ...

Harry was sitting inside, trying to escape from his miserable life.

"It's not fair!" he said to himself, "My life is horrible, even though I've never done anything wrong. I need to do something!" Suddenly, his eyes lit up. "I know... Since I'm a supernaturally patient and faultlessly nice angst-ridden hero, I can run away and no one will think it's my fault!"

Remembering that his trunk was already packed, Harry looked around his room for anything else he needed.

_Considering the Dursleys are always complaining that I look like I've been dragged out of a homeless shelter, you'd think they'd buy me some better clothes. Oh well..._

From downstairs, Harry heard his Aunt Petunia yelling.

"Where are you, you worthless brat? You had better get down here soon. Since listening to me screech is much more annoying than anything I'll ever do you, you would think you'd come down here when I start yelling."

As Harry started toward the door, he noticed a little brown mouse on the floor. _How did it get in here? _he wondered. _Aunt Petunia hates mice._

To Harry's astonishment, the mouse opened its mouth and began singing.

"_Every time he'd find a minute,  
That's the time that they begin it.  
Harry, Harry,_"

"BOY! Get down here!" bellowed Vernon.

"_Harry, Harry, Harry,  
Night and day it's 'Harry,  
Clean the car, fix the breakfast,  
Wash the dishes, do the mopping...'_"

"Who... what the heck are you?" Harry asked, amazed.

"'_And the sweeping, and the dusting';  
They always keep him hopping._"

Out on his windowsill, a bird started singing.

"Get out of my room!" Harry shouted.

"_Poor, poor Harry._"

The mouse turned around and scurried out of the room. Harry shrugged, and walked through the hallway and down the stairs to the inhumanly clean kitchen.

"There you are," barked Vernon. "Now come here so we can abuse you."

"We've decided you're not going back to Hogwarts," stated Aunt Petunia, "and we intend to keep you here for no logical reason, besides our desire to make you as miserable as possible. We're sure we're going to get away with it. If England had any Social Services workers, you'd already be in a foster home."

"What about my friends from school?"

"We're hoping they won't notice that you're gone. They didn't notice the last time we were starving you."

Harry couldn't argue with that, so he went upstairs to get some sleep.

------------------------------------

Harry suddenly woke up in a huge, white room. He stood up, wondering where the heck he was. Out in the distance, someone was walking toward him. As the figure approached him, he recognized Dumbledore. In sunglasses. And a black trench coat.

Dumbledore stopped, a yard from Harry. "Harry, you are _the one_."

"What?" Harry was very confused.

"You are _the one_."

"I don't get..."

"Don't ruin the effect," Dumbledore snapped. His tone lightened again. "I'm sure you have many questions for me."

"Yeah, I guess," he agreed.

"Ask."

"What's with the Zen thing? How can you move in that plastic jacket? And what am I standing on? Do you _try_ to freak people out like this?"

"Everything that has a beginning has an end, Harry."

"That's nice, but you didn't answer my question."

"Of course. Heaven forbid I tell you something that you could ever understand. I can't have people making actual informed decisions. I have to try to hide the truth but then let you figure things out, consequently putting you in unnecessary danger."

"Huh?"

Dumbledore made another coat appear from thin air. "Put on the cool, retro outfit, Harry, and in doing so become one with yourself."

"I am _one_ with myself! I'm one fricking person! And I'm not putting on that dollar-store piece of junk."

"They will find you, Harry."

"Whatever."

Harry woke with a start in his darkened bedroom. He tried to inhale a shocked gasp, choked, and gave himself a coughing fit. Once he had calmed down, he looked around his room, and saw a sheet of black plastic hanging over his chair. "Stupid #$ piece of junk."


End file.
